My Own Key

She never claimed to be more than a Woman,

For what possesses more grace than a Woman--

No vessel contains more beauty than a Woman,

She has always intrinsically known.

Although at times She could be found

Postured behind a painted silk screen,

If, for a moment, Self effacing,

Soon enough, again, Yearning

For the scenery:

A panorama still containing unknown colors,

A beauty deserving to sing,

To be sung by Herself:

For no one can sing it more knowingly

Than Herself.

And no one can name the origin of every scar

But Herself;

Feel the weight of the turquoise ring,

Fibrous blue and brown and green,

Feel Her Grandfather's key on a ribbon

Warmed by Her life against Her chest,

As She does.

This topography is sacred: It cannot be touched

Or traversed by Any One;

A map cannot be made by Any One;

There is not a soul versed in Its dominion.

Her wing can only be brushed by

An Innocent's wing

Deeply bluely nocturnal and Pure

As Morning.

She can only be cradled

By a hand that knows Its own.

A hand that knows Its own bliss

And Its own woe.

She can only be seen by eyes

That have known Their own.

And recognized what Their own have shown,

And known it to be true,

And to be good.

Tried by every element

And found to be clean as the sea:

Still a burned thing,

A buried thing,

A strewn and blown thing,

A drowned thing.

All of these She herself

Has been, to struggle up

To the surface, Bearing a key,

Meant never for any other to keep:

Meant not for a lock or

To unlock any other Soul,

Meant not to be given but

Loved softly, Kept.

Hard-won through the only test,

The most exacting test:

Her heart once a crushed nautilus;

Thoughtlessly rent.

At the vital moment

A seal struggling free from a net:

And Once on shore a Woman,

Kelp in Her basket,

With a key around Her neck.

By merit Hers

As all must earn Their own.